


Knowing (and unknowing)

by TheMalapert



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Yennefer is a Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalapert/pseuds/TheMalapert
Summary: After Geralt’s colossal screw-up with the only two people who wanted to be close to him, one is ready to forgive, and one isn’t. Yennefer shows Jaskier why Geralt doesn’t deserve his forgiveness.ANDGeralt relearns his bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What assumptions do we make that we don’t bother to change? When does the learning stop and the knowing begin?
> 
> I’ve been feeling existential, so please enjoy this character study.

Jaskier was waiting at the base of the mountain with Roach because of course he was. He didn’t know what else to do. Geralt was angry; it was Tuesday. A very extraordinary Tuesday, but nothing Jaskier hadn’t weathered before. With his presence, he’d give Geralt the option to continue travelling with him, or like happened sometimes, Geralt would disappear into shrubbery, not to be seen for several weeks. For such a large man, Geralt could melt surprisingly easy into the underbrush. 

But Jaskier would stay and give Geralt the option. Despite barely listening to a thing the Witcher said, Jaskier always felt like he was giving Geralt the options in the relationship. 

Because Jaskier didn’t have a choice, not really. 

He accepted long ago that whatever paths took him away from Geralt always managed to circle back around again. Jaskier thought it darkly amusing that he was just another person Geralt unintentionally tied. By all means, the least remarkable. Again, Jaskier tried to see the humor in the situation, considering he’d spent his whole life building up to be the  _ best.  _ He was the best bard with the best songs and the best muse an artist could ask for. He published books of poetry and held esteemed classes at Oxenfurt. He could play eighteen instruments and was known the Continent over as a fantastic lover. It was all pale next to a Princess of Surprise being bound to the noblest Witcher, and oh also, the girl might have awesome power the likes of which sent nations to war. Of course, don’t think he didn’t notice the Fate’s strings weaving Geralt and his child surprise into a nice big bow with the baby-obsessed, startlingly powerful witch. Sometimes, he marvelled at the perfection of it all. Tragedy unfolding, and he was the chorus. Delivering exposition. 

He didn’t notice Yennefer until it was too late to casually stroll away. Now, it would have been bald-faced fleeing, and he wasn’t entirely above it.

She beat him to the punch, saying, “I’m not here to quarrel. I heard your conversation with Geralt. I think there’s something you should see.”

“Conversation,” Jaskier snorted under his breath. He hardly thought cursing a friend’s existence counted as such. “Don’t you have an elsewhere to be?”

She looked as tired as that jab came out. After  _ it’s you! Shoveling it!,  _ Jaskier had very little left in him to be surprised as he followed the witch at a docile pace. She sat in a bed of springy moss underneath an old cedar. Yennefer directed him to sit across from her, and he did, folding his legs. For a while, neither of them spoke. This was her useless endeavor, so he was going to let her break the ice. 

“He doesn’t deserve your devotion,” Yennefer said finally, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. 

“Boy talk, Yennefer? Don’t have enough girlfriends from the old days to indulge your taste for gossip?” He said. The side of her mouth kicked up, eyes turning hard. 

“I’m saying it for your own good. You might be fine with him not appreciating you, but he doesn’t even  _ know  _ you,” she snapped. 

Jaskier showed his teeth. “It’s not about what he deserves, and I—yes he does! It’s been two fucking decades, Yen. I’ve cleaned his own shit off his back when he got himself paralyzed on Drowner Queen venom! I once  _ vomited  _ into his  _ hair,  _ and he stayed up the whole might making sure I didn’t choke!”

“You do things for each other; I get it,” she said. “And he and I have been fucking for like seven years. That doesn’t mean he understands you. It doesn’t… it doesn’t mean what you  _ think  _ it does.”

Jaskier had to blink. He didn’t know this woman. Her eyes watered, even as angry as they looked. Sorrow out of every pore, like she’d been pickled in it. Fierceness, but not born of battle. This was a fierce, bitter  _ disappointment.  _ Like every sharp word or hateful glare was painted wrapping paper for this tightly compressed unhappiness. 

“I have to show you something,” Yennefer said, and she held out her hand. Jaskier slowly, oh so slowly, put his palm over hers. 

The world shifted. 

The forest stepped aside, and he was in a familiar tavern—familiar in how they were all familiar. One tavern after the next and Geralt. Geralt sat across from him wearing a face he hardly recognized. 

“It’ll take a whole day to find all these ingredients,” he said softly. 

_ A lie,  _ something in Jaskier replied, and he understood what this was. 

“I can set out in the morning and hopefully get you on your way day after next.”

_ He’ll waste time in the forest. He’s going to  _ make  _ you stay another night.  _ The voice, snake-like but still so very Yennefer corrected,  _ he  _ wants  _ you to stay another night.  _

“If that’s really the fastest you can do, I suppose I have no choice,” Yen answered, examining a slight bump in her nail. The voice said,  _ punish him. He doesn’t make your choices.  _

She wanted to spend two nights with him. She did. 

Instead, she said, “I have some business in Hagge, but I’ll be back tomorrow evening for my things. You did say the whole day, right?”

Geralt glanced away.  _ Coward. Just tell me. Ask me to stay.  _

Jaskier felt magic loop around the scene, distorting it like a ritardando. It snapped back into place, and it seemed clearer. Almost too bright. The commentary was silent. 

“Aw, don’t pout, dear Witcher,” Yennefer said. “You’ll have that nice bard who’s in love with you to keep you company. Or, wait? Who is he in love with now?”

It was supposed to hurt; that much was clear. A dry mirth lit behind Geralt’s eyes, like listening to a joke you’d heard too many times. 

He snorted and said, “Jaskier doesn’t love like that.”

Except—

Jaskier very much did. 

Very much, he loved like that in regard to the Witcher in question, point of fact. 

“That is funny, though. Jaskier mooning over me like those maidens in his songs.” Geralt kept digging himself this hole. “Do you think he’s up there right now doodling our names in hearts? Of course not, Yen. If I had a scar for every time he proclaimed his undying love to a Duchess or some such—oh wait! I do!”

He pulled up the edge of his shirt with a wicked grin, showing off the myriad of scars. Yennefer did not return the smile. She’d gone very stiff indeed. 

“He’s not a schoolgirl, Geralt. I’m sure his lovelorn activities involve a lot more alcohol and masturbating,” Yennefer replied with a toxicity that enumerated just how much she didn’t want to think about Jaskier’s wanking habits. 

“Then how would I ever know the difference?” Geralt sat back and took a thoughtful chug of the fine ale she’d conjured them. 

“You’re hopeless.” 

His eyes flicked over the tension crackling along her shoulders, almost expecting his medallion to start humming. He put down his mug and hunched onto his elbows. His brows pulled together as he considered her narrowed gaze. 

“Seriously, can you imagine him actually being in love? Dedicating himself to someone. Settling down? Taking on someone else’s life like it was his own—gladly. No.” Geralt shook his head. “It’s not Jaskier. In sickness and in health? I watched him climb out the Countess de Stael’s window after he found the lump in her breast.”

_ “She didn’t want her husband to know!”  _ Jaskier screeched, and the illusion was broken. Sitting cross legged in the moss beneath a cedar tree, Jaskier turned a hectic frown on Yennefer. “She knew the risks of surgery, and she was so,  _ so  _ afraid of pain. The cutting and the burning, she’d said. She wanted to die before she let them cut and burn. Yennefer, she was going to silence me if I didn’t leave. I had to leave.”

Yennefer’s hand squeezed at his, stunted, unsure like she wasn’t practiced in the motions of consoling. 

“That was the moment I realized he didn’t know me. He could love me and lust for me, but if he thought that about  _ you _ who travelled with him for so long… How many years would it take for him to really know me?” Yennefer confessed it as if it could make Jaskier feel better, but he was quite numb at the moment. 

“He doesn’t see it,” Jaskier mumbled. 

He always assumed Geralt was just fine with his obvious pining. That they were on the same page: Jaskier loved Geralt to the tune of a thousand sonnets, and Geralt liked having Jaskier around, usually. They didn’t need to change any of that, not that Jaskier would complain if they did something wild like drop the ‘usually.’ But now, it seemed Geralt couldn’t even fathom that Jaskier had any more emotional depth than the imprints of Roach’s shoe in soft mud. Geralt had laughed— _ scoffed _ —at the idea of Jaskier possessing an ounce of devotion when Jaskier poured oceans of it at the Witcher every day. 

“He doesn’t  _ see.”  _ Jaskier searched violently purple eyes for an answer that wasn’t there. 

“He doesn’t deserve your love,” Yennefer said. 

Jaskier got to his feet stiffly and walked back to Roach. He started collecting his things. He didn’t know where he was going, but he needed to go. 

“My best friend. Thinks so lowly of me—“ His throat cut him off with a dry spasm, and he felt Yennefer’s hand hover over his shoulder. 

“I can take you as far as Novigrad,” she said softly. 

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Even his hands shook, and he dropped a vial of chamomile oil. The spout broke off on a rock, Roach nickering her displeasure at the noise. It was expensive oil, and there was plenty left in the body of the bottle, but his hands wouldn’t work properly, could barely strap his bedroll to the top of his pack. His lute case was heavy in his grasp. 

He left it there like an offering to a shrine. Yennefer made them a portal to Novigrad. 

As it closed behind them, Roach’s chestnut shine dissolving into the gray slats of another inn, Jaskier breathed in one last gulp of mountain air. It wasn’t goodbye. Jaskier wasn’t giving up on Geralt. Didn’t know if he could. But he needed some time to figure out how to address this. How to get over it. 

He had a lot of thinking to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier’s things were gone, and that was it. Geralt tried not to let it settle in his chest, but it descended like a kikimore holding him underwater. Geralt gave Roach a treat for behaving so well these couple days, and he untied her to let her roam while he took stock of his things. Before the dragon hunt, he’d been chasing rumors of a nightwalker in this area. Even if he didn’t find a job soon, he had enough hardtack and jerky to last, except, well… Geralt had enough to last quite a while, he realized as he adjusted his calculations down to one. 

Geralt mostly thought of his life in pre- and post- segments. 

Pre-Witcher was a blur of images, strong feelings that only haunted him when he was delirious. Of course, there was pre- and post-Blaviken. Post-Renfri. There was his life before Yennefer, and a guilty, selfish part of him was glad he might not have to imagine a post- for her. 

He thought about his life post-Jaskier. Certainly, it was quieter. As he set out towards the next monster, Geralt listened to the occasional bird and the chirping grasshoppers. The quiet was missing something and became an eerie-ness that raised goosebumps. It was like looking at a waterfall then realizing it made no sound. He’d travelled without Jaskier plenty, but the silence he often complained about desiring felt too sharp, too final. 

Another section of his life came all too soon, and he had to reconcile with the idea of a pre-Ciri life. Because everything had changed. When she first ran into his arms, guided by desperation and Destiny, he felt a chasm appear between pre-Ciri Geralt and the Witcher who now held a princess huddled against his bloodsoaked tunic. Not just a princess—a tired, scared little girl. He thought of Vesemir finding him on the road. Tired, scared. And he was glad the knowledge of Witchers was destroyed because he could never be Vesemir. 

A year passed in a whirlwind of during-Ciri madness. Their frantic flight to Kaer Morhen, living and learning each other over an uncertain winter. Yennefer slotting into their lives as if that was always Destiny’s original intent. 

Yen was distant, but then again, he was busy. They had their nights, occasionally, and she didn’t bother to flee his bed since they would see each other at breakfast. Like learning Ciri, he felt like he was learning a whole new Yennefer. The love he felt before, a burning desire to know and be known, dissolved beneath the reality of it. Something stronger formed in its place, and he knew she still didn’t trust her feelings about him. But he trusted his own. Would the djinn still be meddling to be able to forge this new love like a balanced sword from a hunk of metal? Geralt thought it was possible his feelings were first produced by magic, but the more he saw Yennefer, the more it made sense to be in love with her in the first place. 

She asked about Jaskier. 

They’d been getting along, joking during Ciri’s lessons, and the fucking that followed wasn’t their usual hurried slaking of lust. She’d even laughed when his hair got caught in his shirt. 

“I haven’t seen him since the dragon hunt,” Geralt said truthfully, and Yennefer rolled away from his side. She picked her dress off the floor, stepping into it with disappointing grace. He didn’t need to voice the question. She glanced over her shoulder, and her mouth set hard. 

“I promised Ciri we could work on thought transference this afternoon,” she said. 

If only Geralt could read thoughts. 

He went back on the Path in the late spring. Ciri was going stir crazy, and that wasn’t a good combination with awesome magical power and trauma. Yennefer made them both glamors out of precaution. It drained her already shaky reserves, but she insisted. Everything she did, she did well, so Geralt actually had two. One that made him look human and another that made him look like Vesemir—just another anonymous Witcher. Geralt had nearly laughed when Yennefer told him modeling Vesemir would make it easier for her. It looked like he could be Vesemir after all. 

It was raining and a little chilly by the time they exited the Blue Mountains, and Ciri had done nothing but tromp along dutifully, shivering but controlling it before it got out of hand. They’d made progress over the winter, and she would tell him things. (He was glad for Yennefer when Ciri’s womanly problems presented themselves. That, at least, Ciri didn’t have to tell him about.)

“I hate going to sleep in a wet bedroll,” Geralt commented as they set up camp in a mostly-dry cave. Her eyes widened just a fraction, and she did some calculating. 

“It can’t be worse than walking in wet socks,” she said, and Geralt smiling. 

“That’s pretty bad.” He started telling her about a time he and Jaskier got pulled into a swamp by a bog hag. They had to walk nearly a half-day back to town. Jaskier’s blisters were legendary, and the _chafing!_ Jaskier spent the whole next day stretched out on their little inn bed slathered in bloodroot and lotion. 

The cave roof was slanted so building a fire would smoke them out. They both stripped to their skivvies and constructed a drying line. Grinning over the fire, sharing their worst rain stories, Geralt was thrown back to Jaskier’s first rainstorm. He’d obviously been a young man, broad and hairy where Ciri was slight and boney, but that same lightness swirled in the air. Childlike but somehow still in camaraderie with an old beast like him. 

With the bard on the mind, it wasn’t long until they ran into him. In one of the northern villages, almost too close to Posada for it not to ache. Geralt was wearing his human glamor, and he was drawn to a table near Jaskier. There wasn’t much space as it seemed the whole town was gathered around, children squished at his feet. Geralt ordered dinner for him and Ciri, but even the serving boy seemed enraptured. 

Jaskier did look good. 

It wasn’t his usual look, but Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away. Jaskier’s hair had grown out, nearly past his chin, and he sported scruff enough to darken his face. The young girls that crooned for romantic ballads called him Dandelion, and Geralt knew the reason for the change. He should have thought Jaskier would need to go into hiding. He should have thought. 

“Sing us the one of the Witcher and the Princess,” one of the older women requested, and Geralt stiffened. Surely, Jaskier wouldn’t have—

“That short thing’s hardly a song. Are you sure it’s what you want to hear?” Jaskier’s back was straight in the chair, better for his singing, Geralt knew, but also Jaskier never had correct posture. When the woman implored him, Jaskier’s gaze drifted off, his mouth worked over small words. “Very well.”

Jaskier set down his lute, and Geralt’s brow furrowed. Jaskier folded his hands in his lap, squinting at the ceiling as if it could remind him of the tune. The people hardly breathed, waiting. 

Finally he began sweetly, softly,

_There are things they do_

_to boys tossed out in the gloom_

The following line had a harder edge, Jaskier’s eyes sweeping across the children at his feet. 

_To make them Witchers._

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat. 

_But for potions, spells, and steel_

_a body’s still got to heal._

_Sometimes it doesn’t_

A new melody, spiking into his upper range. 

_So save your woe and awe,_

_sometimes it’s just a claw_

_in the right place._

_That leaves the White Wolf out and bare,_

_his Child Surprise unprepared…_

_for the monsters._

Something like a chorus, lilting as Jaskier’s shimmering eyes slid shut. 

_Her parents are dead._

_Her gaurdian’s failed._

_Where now will she go?_

_The monster’s not fled._

_The monster’s still there._

_The monster takes her throat._

It tapered off at the end, dry and whispering, and Geralt could hear Ciri swallow. Jaskier returned to the earlier melody, and his eyes peeked open, gazing further than this little inn. 

_That’s where I found them on the road,_

_the Witcher’s body damn near cold._

_The child dying._

_I put my hand under her head,_

_and to the girl I said,_

_Princess Cirilla—_

His voice swelled, and another chorus rose from his very soul. 

_Your country awaits,_

_on the other side,_

_of that bright abyss._

He slowed down, each line stumbling as if the song itself was gasping for breath. 

_There, there is no war._

_There, there is no blood…_

_There, Cintra lives._   
  


It lingered like a night’s chill until one of the children at his feet sniffled. 

“It’s alright, little one,” Jaskier hummed, scooping the child into his lap. 

“It’s just so sad,” the boy said. “Why don’t they get a happy ending?”

“Sometimes, that is just the way of things,” Jaskier said, and the child’s mother stepped forward to take him. Jaskier gave her a sad smile, his hand slapping over his knee. “While I hate to end on such a maudlin note, I must be getting to bed, dear admirers.”

The townspeople bade him goodnight, and when the last of them trickled away, he started to collect his lute and earnings. Geralt and Ciri stood at the same time, long finished with their dinner, and they wove through the table’s to Jaskier’s side. Ciri looked at him with baleful, pleading eyes, fingers coming to rest over the pendant bespelled to make her look like a boy. 

Geralt cleared his throat, and Jaskier looked up, the weary smile a pittance offering. “You, um, you’re a very excellent bard, Master Dandelion.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” Jaskier answered out of polite duty. He flipped one of his earned coins over his fingers, giving them both a quick once-over. He sighed when he noted their scruff appearance, when he knew he wasn’t getting anything but words from this encounter. Geralt felt suddenly out of place. 

“Ah, my son is quite interested in music,” Geralt lied, gesturing vaguely towards Ciri. She sold it better, nodding with a devout gleam in her eye. “If it’s not a trouble, he was wondering if he could see your music books.”

“We don’t have coin for an education, sir, but I’ve always wanted to see how music is written down,” Ciri added. Damn, Geralt needed to talk to her about lying. More specifically a ‘never do it to me’ type direction. 

Jaskier hesitated, clearly dead on his feet. Geralt had no idea how long he’d been performing, and then the bard’s clothes told a story of rougher travels. Perhaps it was part of the disguise, but Jaskier’s clothes were frayed at the hems and of actually sensible material. Jaskier looked down at Ciri’s wide eyes. Geralt put a hand on her shoulder, quirking his lip in a very help-a-father-out kind of way. 

“Come, my books are in my room.” Jaskier led them into the belly of the inn as Ciri vibrated with excitement. “Writing songs is sort of two part—lyrics and melody. You don’t need paper or education to write either, but I suppose they do help.”

Jaskier glanced back to give Ciri a smile that had warmth curling in Geralt’s chest like a cat in sunlight. 

“There’s a system of writing music, symbols that mean rhythm and note and feeling,” Jaskier continued. Geralt shut the door behind them as Jaskier described a staff and its relation to pitch. Geralt glanced at Ciri, nodded, and they both took off their glamors. “So really it’s all a little meaningless. If you truly want to write music, you can come up with your own—oh.”

Jaskier’s songbooks slipped out of his hands, landing on the floor with a muted smack. 

“It’s good to see you,” Geralt said, and Jaskier’s lips sucked against his teeth. 

“And who is this?” Jaskier’s eyes left him. Geralt didn’t know why it felt cold. Jaskier dropped to his knees with a smile. “Duchess of Malta? No, I know this one. Empress of the lesser Skellige Isles? No?”

“Ciri of Kaer Morhen,” Ciri introduced, bowing. 

Of Kaer Morhen. 

Geralt’s brain whited out for a second. 

“A distinguished title indeed,” Jaskier said, eyes flicking back to Geralt. “You must be tired. As my friends, I insist you have this room, and I will procure another from the innkeep.”

“Jask—“

“Oh, I’ll not hear of it! It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. Allow me this one indulgence.” Jaskier started to get up to fetch his coin pouch, but Geralt found his hand closing around Jaskier’s arm. 

“That’s why you should stay. We can catch up,” Geralt’s mouth said. 

Curi jumped in, “The bed looks plenty big, and I don’t mind sharing. No reason to waste coin if we don’t have to.”

“She sounds like you already,” Jaskier chuckled. He stared at Geralt’s hand until Geralt extracted it. “I suppose we can have a sleepover for old time’s sake. This at least calls for a treat. I know the innkeeper’s wife, and she makes taffy. She’ll still be up as far as I know.”

With a familiar mischief, Jaskier swept out the door. 

“I like him. He should come with us,” Ciri said in a way that left no room for argument. He wasn’t sure if she picked it up from Calanthe or from Yennefer, but he was beginning to wryly regret this whole open communication thing. Maybe this was why Vesemir was such a bastard when Geralt was growing up. 

Jaskier came back with a bag full of taffy. He and Ciri ate the majority, but they convinced a few past Geralt’s lips. The taste was faint—honeysuckle or lemon—but the chew was enjoyable enough. They did indeed catch up, but it was mostly between Ciri and Jaskier. When Geralt asked a question or told a story with the lilt of a smile he found on his face when talking with Ciri, Jaskier got quiet and gave him an odd look. 

He was especially skittish when Geralt asked about the song.

“Ah, well. Yennefer and I thought it might be good to try and spread the rumor you were dead. No better way to spread rumor than song,” Jaskier said, refusing to look at them.

Hm. Yennefer.

Geralt slept closest to the door. It was his rule, his duty, and while he would have rather had Jaskier under one arm and Ciri under the other, it couldn’t happen out on the road. Maybe if he ever got them both at the Kaer. Jaskier maneuvered Ciri between them. Geralt thought she’d probably prefer the cleaner chamomile-tavern scent of the bard instead of his sweat and horse stench. Then maybe he could have had Jaskier next to him again, if only for the night. But no, the bard settled with his back to them on the edge of the bed. Ciri snuggled into Geralt’s chest, and nobody slept. Ciri at least pretended. 

Geralt regretted what he said, and maybe he was a little premature on the ‘post-Jaskier’ lament. He just didn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t understand this different, cautious Jaskier, and he was starting to think he’d overestimated his previous understanding.

He reached past Ciri, hand hovering over Jaskier’s arm. He thought maybe he shouldn't touch, but then again, he wanted to. He let his hand drift to Jaskier’s shoulder, feeling the bard tense. Geralt thumbed over the familiar cotton of Jaskier’s chemise, and Jaskier sat a hand on top of his. A brief moment of contact. 

In the morning, Geralt asked him to travel with them again. 

“If you want,” Geralt amended. “It’ll be different. I’m not travelling as a Witcher. We have to keep a low profile, but it would be… nice. And Ciri would have someone to keep her company when I hunt.”

Jaskier’s mouth did an interesting lopsided thing, and his fingers danced over his lute case, instrument already packed. 

“I’ve something to say to you,” Jaskier said finally. “Could we step away for a moment?”

“I’m not a baby. I can look after myself for five minutes,” Ciri huffed, and she went to braid little twists in Roach’s mane. 

Jaskier led Geralt outside to the edge of the stables, shielded from the rest of town. He stopped and then he paced and then he stopped again, turning a frown on Geralt. His nerves were making Geralt jumpy. 

“You’ve been unfair to me,” Jaskier started, and Geralt’s shoulders slumped. 

“I know. The mountain, Jaskier, I’m sorry—“

“Let me finish,” Jaskier said, Geralt’s mouth snapping shut. “This isn’t about the dragon hunt, but I’ll accept an apology for that too. Geralt, it’s just that... you don’t think well of me, and I think it’s unfair.”

Geralt didn’t understand. Jaskier was a brat and a bastard and occasionally a thief, but he was also Geralt’s favorite human. Jaskier was kind and soft, driven and passionate about his craft which Geralt never failed to admire. He was Geralt’s ‘very best friend in the whole wide world,’ to put it dramatically. 

So Geralt said, “I don’t understand.”

“Have I not dedicated my life to you? Have I not taken your life in stride, making it my own? I care for you when you’re injured, and I hardly abandon you when coin gets tight, so I don’t understand…” Jaskier’s watery eyes darted over the ground, his hands gripping his elbows tightly. “I don’t understand how you think I can’t love. How can you think I’m not capable of those things, Geralt?”

Fuck. Yennefer. 

“Jaskier, it’s not that—“ Geralt’s brain caught up with Jaskier’s words, and they spun in place, tangled yarn steadily unravelling. “What are you saying?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Jaskier muttered, rubbing a hand over his temple. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and it sounded like a plea. 

“I’m in love with you, Geralt, and I have been for a very long time. But I never knew you had such a poor opinion of me.” Jaskier’s voice grated like sandpaper at the end. Geralt briefly spared a thought for how his singing would fare. 

Every other thought was overwhelmingly blank. The words refused to process, refused to yield as Geralt pushed and pushed at them. Because they made sense, and that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t that he thought poorly of Jaskier. Plenty of people had no interest in the dog-and-pony show that was romance. Geralt had known fine, upstanding, _caring_ people that never once bought into the idea of an ‘other half.’ Some of those people were even poetically romantic. He’d thought that Jaskier was like that. After the first few years when Geralt observed Jaskier flit from bed to bed, woman to man to a very memorable neither, Geralt just assumed Jaskier had no interest. Every year solidified the sentiment. Every year he was on the Path with Geralt for his songs and the revolving door of audiences. Every year he… stayed by Geralt’s side. 

“It’s coming into focus, isn’t it?” Jaskier asked with a watery laugh. “I almost feel bad for you, truly. I thought you knew.”

He should have known. He was a terrible fucking friend. 

“I understand if you don’t want to travel with me anymore, but I think I’ve proven it isn’t a problem on my end,” Jaskier said. 

Geralt hadn’t gotten to considering their travel plans yet. This changed nothing about the fact he wanted Jaskier around. The bard was right; it hadn’t been a problem between them. It didn’t have to change anything about them, but Geralt thought it should. He’d missed something huge about his friend. The last twenty years were thrown into a different light, and Geralt thought about each time he watched Jaskier take someone to have a brief rendezvous. Had it hurt? Had it been a relief? The more he tugged at his view of Jaskier, the more he saw his own glossy assumptions, each one polished into something he could like. It was easy to accept Jaskier could not love like Geralt had come to know the word. It was simple. It filled that whispering place inside him that always wondered why, _why_ the bard travelled with him. 

“Okay,” Geralt said.

He thought about his own loves, his wild, desperate, destructive loves. He thought about the princess he could not save, and he thought about the two he did. He thought about all the women who made him ache, and he realized their common thread. Renfri, stalking towards a final battle of revenge. Yennefer, screaming for control over a creature that would destroy her. Even when he asked for the Law of Surprise, even Pavetta—he could not stop saving women hurtling towards their own demise. Ciri’s visage made his chest tighten as he thought about her path as a Witcher and mage.   
  
He loved them. Of course, he loved them, and as he found these past months, he loved them in such wild, varied ways that he hadn’t known were possible. 

But.

When was he going to let himself try something different?

“Okay?” Jaskier repeated. The word seemed a rock through glass, shattering what little hold he had on himself. The bard shivered, his eyes squeezing shut. 

“Okay,” Geralt said. Because it was. Jaskier was in love with him. Geralt reached for Jaskier’s hand and tangled their fingers together. “I can’t promise to be what you want. It’s so different with Yennefer, and you’re very important to me that I--Even if we don’t work like this, I can promise I always want to spend our lives together. Like we have. You say I think lowly of you, but you’re just Jaskier, and I just want you to come with me.”

Jaskier burst into tears, and Geralt snatched his hand back. Fuck. This was not going like he hoped. Geralt stepped forward, hands raised, but he had practice soothing rowdy horses, not sobbing bards. He started shushing, inching forward until he could pet over Jaskier’s shoulders. It stemmed the tide a little, and he pulled Jaskier to his chest, running a firm hand over his back. After a moment, the throat noises stopped, only sniffling left. Geralt kept his pattern.

“You’re Roach shushing me, aren’t you?” Jaskier asked. 

Geralt’s hand stalled on the small of his back. “No.”

“You totally are!” Jaskier pulled away enough to look Geralt in the eye. “I’m not sad, dear. That was quite lovely, in fact. This is quite lovely.” His arms wriggled out from under Geralt’s, and the Witcher moved to let go, but Jaskier put them back with a huff. He slung his arms around Geralt’s neck and beamed at him. 

Geralt settled in, feeling the rightness of Jaskier in his embrace. He was going to enjoy this, he could tell.

“You’re a good man. I don’t want you to try to be something you’re not because I know who you’re not. I’m saying… Geralt, you don’t have to make yourself into someone who loves me just because I love you.” Jaskier’s lips shaped out a smile, yet it was anything but. Geralt hummed thoughtfully.

“You don’t know all of me,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier opened his mouth to argue, but Geralt silenced him with a kiss. Jaskier’s eyes blinked owlishly when Geralt pulled back from the quick peck. 

“That was me,” Geralt said. He pressed another kiss to Jaskier’s lips, making a trail over his jaw, under his ear. “And that. And that.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed. Geralt tugged on the bottom of Jaskier’s ear with his teeth, sliding his hands down to Jaskier’s ass and pressing their bodies together, every line. 

“And there’s a few more bits of me you could get to know,” Geralt whispered, raising gooseflesh along Jaskier’s neck. 

Dazedly, Jaskier’s brow furrowed when Geralt separated them. Not going far, just returning them to their original embrace. 

Geralt looked at him hard to say, “There’s parts of you that I’d like know better. More than I thought.”

“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” Jaskier said, the self-insult sitting like ash in Geralt’s mouth. He frowned and kissed the bard again to wipe that rueful smirk off his face. Then he kissed Jaskier one more time because he wanted to. 

“I do, and I’ll do it gladly,” Geralt said. He couldn’t help but add, “A task made infinitely easier if you’d agree to travel with us…”

Jaskier tugged on his ponytail in retaliation. 

“I’d follow you anywhere, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier declared. Geralt wisely did not mention that one siren hunt where he actually could have used the bard’s help, but Jaskier was snugly tucked up in the inn. Who knew swamps even had sirens?

“Good, because I’m starting to get used to this.” Geralt swooped in for another kiss; this one involved licking and a little bit of teeth. Yes, he could get _very_ used to this. Jaskier didn’t have a great lover’s reputation for nothing. 

“Hmm,” Jaskier said, and Geralt smirked at it. His habit, his bard. “The travelling has to happen today?”

His tongue traced Geralt’s bottom lip before delving inside, a wicked moan swallowed up by Geralt returning the fervor. His hand came to rest at the side of Jaskier’s neck, thumb stroking over his throat in another soothing motion. 

“Not necessarily.”

How they managed to trip back into the inn, neither of them really recalled. Ciri seemed appropriately exasperated by the adult’s flights of fancy, but they could both see the relief swimming in her eyes. 

This time, Ciri got a room to herself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hap end :)


End file.
